


Locked Doors

by 74days



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bucky Likes Steve To Dress Nice, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Time Travel, Wet & Messy, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/74days/pseuds/74days
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers wakes up to find his best pal Bucky missing and a fella that looks just like him in his place. It seems that something weird is going on, and this new Bucky has a plan of his own...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Doors

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a meet-cute, folks, and is not part of that collection! Note the rating!

Steve woke up slowly. He’d never been a morning person and New York winters made it even harder to get out of bed – his nose was already numb from where it had been poking out from the cocoon of thready blankets. The bed wasn’t large, it had been the same bed he’d had as a child, when he’d moved from his mother’s bed to his own, but when he pushed his legs down the mattress to stretch out of the ball he’d curled into through the night, the sheets were colder than ice. Hissing, he drew them back up, and wondered if Bucky would just let him sleep through the whole day. Probably not, he figured. Being Bucky’s roommate had obvious perks – he got to live with his best friend, he didn’t have to pay as much rent as he would have living alone, and between them they always had something hot to eat. But Bucky had ideas about lying in bed all day if Steve wasn’t sick – it wasn’t happening. He’d heard Steve’s mom talk for years about the benefits of exercise, fresh air and keeping the mind active, and he never let Steve sleep past 7am. He sighed, the ever present rattle in his chest not alarming or too loud, despite the cold – and ground his teeth together as he kicked off the blankets in a swift move.

The cold air was like a slap to his skin, biting and sharp, and he whined pitifully as he sat up, the bones in his back and joints popping like a concession stand at the cinema. It was still dark, maybe Steve had woken up before Bucky for a change – he could fix up a breakfast  ** _and_**  something for his pal to put in the lunch pail he took down to the docks every day. However, the other bed in the corner of the room was already empty, covers pulled tight over the thin mattress the way Steve had made it the morning before – a sign that Bucky hadn’t slept in it at all – he always left his bed with the covers kicked back and the single well-worn pillow thrown on the floor.

He pulled on his clothes quickly, gooseflesh causing the pale blond hairs on his skin to stand up almost straight, trying to keep his jaw clenched tight to stop the shivers. Although the apartment was cold in the winter, it wasn’t normally  ** _that_**  cold – his breath was a white cloud with every exhale and he was sure he saw the first curls of frost around the glass of the framed picture of his mother.

The reason why was evident when Steve pushed open the door of the room at was hit with the full force of ice cold air – the sound of the winter wind howling through the  _open fucking window_. “Jesus Bucky!” Steve yelled, running forward to close the window against the storm that had let in an actual drift of snow, piled up in a white wall against the back of the couch, which was paler than normal as the frost had claimed it.

Bucky, a dark shadow in the corner, didn’t move as Steve slammed the window shut in the frame, locking it in place. It wasn’t airtight at the best of times, but Steve felt a little like he was closing the barn door once the horse had bolted. “What the hell, Buck?” Steve said, turning and getting a better look at the drift piled up against the couch. “Are you tryin’ to get us both killed?”

The shadow in the corner hadn’t moved, and Steve felt his temper wind up tighter that a spring in a pocket watch. He rarely fought with Bucky, his best friend got a free pass where other guys wouldn’t get a warning before a well-used fist slammed directly into their faces. He’d split the skin on his knuckles so often that they were a mess of silver lines and the pale pink of new skin under scabs. “Are you just gonna sit there?” He snapped, pointing at where Bucky was sitting, chair pulled right back into the darkest corner of the room, back to the wall. “Huh?” He asked, feeling his shoulders jerk with anger. “Bucky said when he got real riled up he looked like a pigeon, bobbing along, hissing like an alley cat. “You even gonna talk to me, huh?” Steve seethed, his anger heating him up faster than even the warmest of blankets, faster than a roaring fire could ever hope to. “This is bullsh-”

“This isn’t real.” Bucky said, cutting Steve off, his voice strangely soft. “This is a dream.”

“Like hell it’s a dream!” Steve snapped back. “You better  ** _hope_**  I’m dreaming, you letting the whole damn winter in here!” He yelled, not even caring if he woke the neighbours. They didn’t have to deal with Bucky being weird. “Have you been drinking?” He snapped. “Is this some kind of… of… of you getting back at me?”

Bucky remained quiet, quieter than Steve had ever known Bucky to be. Bucky was active, always laughing, always grinning, a man with friends and arm slung over someone’s shoulder. “Has the cold got to you?” Steve said, looking into the dark corner. “Serves you right if it has. I don’t even care.” Quick as it had come, Steve felt his anger flicker out like a candle at the end of its wick. “Have you been here all night? In the cold?”

Bucky still didn’t move, the shadows around him seeming deeper than normal, keeping Steve from seeing him properly. “Buck?” He said, stepping forward only to hear a sharp click, like something sliding into place. “Bucky?” He asked, cold feet leaving dark shadows on the thin layer of frost that had grown over the floor.

“Don’t move.” Bucky said, voice still soft – but soft in a way that spoke of a hidden threat, like how the wiseguys would smile and ask how you were doing in friendly tones before you ended up trying to crawl outta a gutter with two broken legs and no teeth. Steve had never heard Bucky talk like that, not ever.

“Buck, what’s going on?” He asked, taking another step. “Bucky, are you okay? It’s me, it’s Steve.”

“He’s dead.” Bucky said, voice flat. “Don’t move.”

Steve suddenly felt like shit for yelling at Bucky over an open window. There had been a death, and Bucky wasn’t taking it so good – and there was only one man who could affect Bucky so much.

“Your Pa?” He asked, gently. “Did your Pa pass on?” He said, gentle as he could manage. “Bucky, I’m real sorry, I’m so sorry. You coulda woke me, I woulda come.” He said, “Do you need me to do something? I could get Becca from school, or help your Ma with arrangements?” He tried to remember all the things that Bucky and his family had done for him as he struggled with his own mother’s death. He’d been so numb that the whole month after was a hazy mess of people calling on him, sad eyes and Bucky asking him to move in.

“Steve.” Bucky said, the shadow not moving.

“Yeah?”

“Steve is dead.”

Steve blinked, breath catching for a moment at the certainty he heard in Bucky’s voice, how he sounded so sure – so solid. It took several moments for his brain to realise what must have happened.

“Buck, you’ve had a nightmare.” He said, “I’m fine. It’s just a  _dream_.” He laughed, then, at the thought of Bucky waking up after falling asleep on the couch, maybe, thinking Steve was dead and throwing open the window – maybe for a smoke. “Jesus, you’re so goddam melodramatic.” He said, shaking his head. “What, you thought I was dead so you go trying to get yourself frozen solid? I thought you were the smart one at school.” He rolled his eyes and looked around the room. “Well, nightmare or not, you’ll have to help me get this place back in order.” He said, pointedly. “You can start with the damn snow.” He turned, moving to the bedroom to grab another pair of socks for his freezing feet, when Bucky moved. Quicker than Steve had ever seen his best friend move, one moment he was as still as death in the corner of the room, and the next he was forcing Steve to the ground, a painful knee in the curve of his spine, buckling Steve’s legs and slamming him face first into the cold floor. The first bloom of pain was enough to have him suck in a sharp breath, throat burning with the icy air, lungs seizing harshly. Something cold pressed into the base of his neck, and Steve remembered too late the click of metal on metal. Bucky had a gun, and he was holding the nuzzle to the hollow at the back of his skull. If he pulled the trigger, even if he jerked or wasn’t quite even, Steve would die. His second last thought before his lungs seized completely was the way that Bucky moved, different.

His last thought was that maybe it wasn’t Bucky at all.

* * *

 

Steve woke up back in his own bed, warmer than he could ever remember being. He stretched out, legs encountering only warm sheets no matter how he starfished, toes wiggling with little pops. Everything was warm, the tips of his ears right down to his toes, and he revelled in the feeling before the memory of the night before hit him. He snapped upright, the sunshine pouring through the window, reflecting off the pristine snow outside, Bucky’s bed – lightly rumpled like the man only lay on the top for a while before getting up – the pillow still kicked on the floor. Steve wanted to laugh at himself, laugh at his dream. The winter storm must have snuck into his dreams, making him imagine the horror of the night before. That Bucky might hurt him, Bucky, of all people. Steve grimaced at the thought.

His clothes were folded over the back of the chair, but he could see right away that something was different. The fabric of his undershirt was a pristine white, starched – with neat creases that looked as though it had just come new from the store. His mind raced as he pulled on the clothes, brain not quite able to put it together. The pants were brand new, thick and warm – they fitted Steve better than anything he’d ever owned, with suspenders even though they didn’t need them to keep them from falling down like his old pair.

He carefully pulled them on, wondering if Bucky had replaced his clothes, worried just how much everything must have cost him – the shirt alone was probably worth more than a month’s rent.

He looked at himself in the mirror of his mothers vanity once he was dressed, aware he was killing time, scared of what might be waiting for him through the door. There was a mark on his cheek, a scrape that looked new. Bucky. His brain supplied. Bucky did that. He shook his head at the intrusive thought. It had been a dream. A dream.

The mark on his cheek didn’t fade as he twisted his head in the reflection of the mirror, and he could see the bruise forming on his jaw, marks that looked too much like the shape of Bucky’s fingerprints. The span of his hand.

Turning away from his reflection, he slowly walked to the door of the bedroom and turned the wooden knob.

* * *

 

Bucky was standing in the room, facing the door like he’d been waiting for Steve to walk out. But… it wasn’t Bucky.

He looked like Bucky, maybe. He’d made an attempt to shave, going on the slight rash over his jaw – something the Bucky Steve knew would never have stood for. It was the same slight cleft in the centre of his chin, the same mouth, the same colour of eyes. But things were different. The jaw was hard, the mouth a tight line, the eyes far too cold – his hair was long, longer than a nights growth, longer even that a month, a year. Bucky had always been a fit man, with shoulders that made local girls a little weak at the knees, but when Steve looked at him he saw how much larger this new person was – as though someone had a picture of Bucky Barnes and tried to cram a much larger man into the space he used to be in. The man in front of Steve was broader, thighs thicker, he stood almost to attention rather than the easy-going slouch of the Bucky who lived with Steve. Even his clothes, the same well made, brand new clothes that Steve was wearing were wrong. Bucky wouldn’t wear a jacket without a vest, he wouldn’t have picked a black suit unless he had no other choice – he hated them, funeral suits, he called em. The black leather gloves looked like something a mobster would wear – not Bucky Barnes.

“Who are you?” Steve asked.

“The Soldier.” The man replied, sounding like the Bucky that Steve knew, but softer, as though he was scared of being overheard.

Steve nodded. It was clear that while he might not be bound and gagged, Steve was a prisoner of this man who wore Bucky like a bad suit. “I’m Steve.” He said, and the man nodded.

“Yes.” He said, “I remember you.”

“What do you remember?” Steve asked, trying to stay calm. He could see a large case, leaning against the door, a smaller bag – open to show an array of weapons. He could remember the cold feel of metal on his skin, the press of the nuzzle at the base of his neck.

“I was sent to kill the Widow and the traitor Sitwell.” The man said, as though he were reading from a distant script, eyes locked over the top of Steve’s head. He stood like a soldier, Steve realised. “I failed in my mission. The Widow lived.”

“Why?”

“There was a man.” The soldier told him. “On the bridge. I knew him.” He paused. Blinked. “He called me Bucky. He allowed himself to be taken. The Widow escaped. I was punished for failing.” There was a slight tick in his jaw, Steve noticed. He had no idea how the soldier had been punished, but he had a pretty good idea that it wasn’t a ruler over the knuckles like at school. “I was sent for conditioning.” He carried on. “The chair.” Another tick of the jaw. “It hurt. They told me to kill the man on the bridge. I wanted to comply. But I saw memory.” He looked at Steve then, like a man dying of thirst might look at a river. “I saw a memory. You are a memory. It must be protected from the chair.” He paused. “I put my memories somewhere safe.”

“I’m not a memory.” Steve pointed out. “I’m a person.”

“I’m an asset.” The soldier told him, “I shaped the world.” He seemed proud of that. “My handlers are aware of my needs. I must not be left to starvation nor extremes of temperature. If I am damaged in any way, I must be allowed time to heal, damaged parts must be replaced. All parts of me are valuable for mission readiness.” He looked at Steve and  the corner of his mouth twitched. “All parts. My memories are parts of me, but the chair causes them damage.” He nodded at Steve. “I have been given the freedom to protect myself from damage.”

Steve blinked. “So… so you’re a soldier?”

“I am  _The_  Soldier.”

“And you think I’m one of your memories?”

“Yes.”

“What have you done with Bucky?”

“He is also a memory.”

“Where is he?”

“Not here.” The soldier shrugged. “I assumed he  _is_  where I  _was_.”

Steve paused. “But weren’t you… weren’t you sent to kill someone?”

“Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America. Appears 24 years old, received the second attempt of Erskine serum, successful. Heightened strength, speed and regenerative ability on par with the Soldier. No other enhancements, no conditioning.” A pause. “Easily manipulated due to The Soldiers similar appearance to childhood friend, fellow soldier and assumed lover, James Buchanan Barnes.”

The air seemed to be sucked out of Steve’s lungs in one uncontrollable breath. “Assumed what?” He gasped.

The soldier looked at Steve and shrugged. “Steven Rogers lived for many years with a male. His relationship with Peggy Carter was short-lived, and once reanimated, has been seen with people of all genders in possible romantic situations.” The soldier seemed to think that Steve’s reaction was amusing. He was almost smirking. “It’s generally believed that Steve Rogers and ‘Bucky’ Barnes were romantically involved.”

“We’re not!” Steve said, bright red and wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

The soldier shrugged. “I don’t care.” He said, while Steve spluttered. “I know that Bucky watched him, I know that there were men before him and missions after him, and I know that those are memories that don’t need protection.”

Steve blinked. “I’ve never had…” He stumbled over the words. “Sex… with Bucky. I’ve never had sex with anyone.”

“You’ve touched one another.”

Steve choked on air. “It wasn’t like that!”

“He told you everyone did it. He wanted to be the first to touch you. You closed your eyes when you orgasmed, and he watched.” The soldier said, calmly, ignoring the way Steve was strangling a steady squeak of refusal. “He tasted your ejaculate from his fingers and let you touch him back. He wanted it to last, he thought about baseball and nuns.”

“That’s a lie.” Steve managed, when it seemed the soldier had stopped talking.

The bigger man shrugged. “It’s a memory.”

“It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t like that  ** _at all_**.”

“It was for him.” The soldier said, calm as anything. “It’s time to go.”

* * *

 

There wasn’t any point in trying to argue with the soldier – and although Steve didn’t quite trust him, he did trust Bucky – and it was clear that the soldier and Bucky were the same person. The explanation wasn’t making sense and Steve’s head hurt like hell as he tried to figure out what was going on, but it seemed like Bucky had been taken, and turned into some kind of super soldier.

He walked through the city like he expected people to move out of his way – and they did. The large case was carried one handed, and Steve had been given the bag, heavy with assorted weapons that didn’t look like anything Steve had seen before – not even in the movies.

The soldier had cash – as soon as they were in an area with cabs, one was hailed with a sharp whistle and Steve bundled into the back. He gave an address in Manhattan and looked out of the window like he was cataloguing everything.

The house was large, expensive and nothing like Steve had ever seen. Bucky simply walked up to the door, said “Hail Hydra,” and was let in by a worried looked butler.

“We weren’t told to expect guests.” The man said, looking confused. “Has the plan been brought forward, sir? Who are you?”

“It is not your place to question my orders. I am the Soldier.”

“Yes, of course, Sir. Of course.”

They were lead through the house, as Bucky-the-soldier gave quiet orders to the butler. “Three meals a day, keep the heat high. Doctor on call, no questions.” He said, “The Senator is not to be told, my orders are from Zola.”

The man paled as he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“We are not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky nodded, stopping only when they reached their destination – a bedroom large enough to house their entire apartment back in Brooklyn. “That will be all.”

When the man nodded, a slight tremor in his hands as he turned and walked away, Bucky gave Steve a slight nudge into the room, before shutting the door behind them.

As soon as the door was shut though, he froze. His hand was still on the lock where he’d carefully slid the blot into place, but it was as though once he had done so, he had no idea what to do.

Steve was wary. The house was large, expensive and obviously part of something that they shouldn’t be involved in. He never heard of anyone called Zola before, and wasn’t sure why Bucky would be taking orders from them – he hadn’t missed the ‘Hail Hydra’ which sounded oddly similar to the cries going around Germany, but Bucky and his folks were from out West, and his grandpa was Romanian, not German. He wandered around the room, touching things gently, trying to commit all of it to memory – like there might be a test later – How many bottles of oil were on the table? How many pillows on the bed? – but it was obvious that he’d end back beside Bucky. Or the man Bucky was now.

“So, what?” He asked, looking around. “What now?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky said, looking at the door. “I have put my memory in a safe place. This is where it ends.” He looked at Steve. “You are in the memory place now. The chair can’t hurt you, the door is locked.” He nodded. “When the door is locked, it’s safe. Hard to get back, but safe.”

“Okay.” Steve agreed. It didn’t make any sense to him, but Bucky-not-Bucky seemed so sure that it would have been stupid to argue. “But if the door is locked, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky admitted, still looking at Steve. “I go back to the chair when the door locks, but I’m here now.” He blinked. “It’s safe here, I keep what’s behind the door.” His fingers spasmed on the lock where they still lingered, before he reached out and pushed the blond hair that always fell over Steve’s eyes back a little. “Do I get to keep this?”

Steve nodded. “Sure, you know you got me to the end of the line, right?”

“Yes.” Bucky nodded, gloved fingers smoothing out Steve’s hair. “I get to keep this memory.” He smiled, for the first time since Steve had met this new, different man, and his heart thumped hard at just how much younger it made him look – how a smile made him look like the Bucky Steve knew, the Bucky that Steve would do anything for. “You’re mine.” Bucky said, smiling. “Mine to keep.”

The kiss took Steve by surprise – Bucky moved faster than Steve could think – but the speed of his movement was tempered by the softness of his lips. Gentle, coaxing, warm. The kiss was nothing like the man giving it. Steve felt guilty when Bucky pulled away. It should have been Steve who pushed him off, it should have been Steve who moved first – the Bucky he knew would never kiss him, Steve was wrong to let this new Bucky do it. “I can make a new memory here.” Bucky said, looking at Steve with that smile. “And keep it.”

The second kiss, Steve  ** _was_**  expecting. Bucky slowly moved forward, crowding Steve against the door, eyes roaming all over Steve’s face before pressing his lips to the side of Steve’s jaw, using the gloved hand to twist his head enough for Bucky to reach comfortably. Steve tried to pull back, but the hand in his hair was firm, keeping him in place.

“Buck-” He started, trying to inject some sense of wrongness in his tone and failing when all he could hear was the breathless whine of his words.

Bucky simply hummed his approval, lips working down Steve’s jaw until reaching the tendon of his neck, the hot, wet flick of his tongue making Steve’s whole body twitch. He’d seen Bucky neck with girls before, he’d been on a handful of disastrous double dates and there wasn’t a night they didn’t go out dancing that Bucky didn’t end up with a girl batting her eyelashes at him. When they’d been younger and everything was new, girls wouldn’t let Bucky kiss them unless Steve was standing watch – some kind of sentinel making sure that no-one saw them getting fresh. Everyone knew Steve wouldn’t gossip about girls being fast, and everyone knew that Steve would always be there to back up any story told if it meant saving someone’s reputation. So Steve stood with his back to Bucky and whatever girl it was, listening and wondering what it would be like to kiss and  ** _be_**  kissed.

Now he knew.

Bucky was bigger than Steve already, but this new bulk seemed to block out anything  ** _but_**  him, caging Steve against the wall as he crowded closer. “He wanted this.” Bucky murmured in his ear, lips and teeth pulling a little on the lobe, making Steve squirm. “Wanted to dress you up and touch you all over.” He rumbled an approving sound when Steve gasped at the sensations of Bucky whispering and kissing along his neck and throat. “I did this for him.” Bucky said, running  a hand down Steve’s side, gloved hand skimming over the new clothes. “I wanted him to remember that he got what he wanted. Dressed up like a boss.”

Steve managed to nod despite the firm hand still holding his head in place. He remembered Bucky’s obsession with looking smart, how he’d try to get Steve to put more effort in, pressing his shirts and helping him with his tie. Steve had put it down to Bucky and his damn mothering – he wasn’t sure how to treat this new information. Bucky’s hand kept moving, fingers stroking over Steve’s side and hip while his mouth trailed hot kisses over Steve’s jaw and neck. “He wanted.” Bucky said, pushing them closer together – pushing his body flush against Steve’s smaller frame. “He watched you, had dreams about you – thought about touching.  ** _Using_**.” Bucky smirked, Steve could feel it on his skin, hyper sensitive. “He told you so many lies.”

Steve managed to suck in enough air to breath out a hushed “No.”

“Yes.” Bucky murmured. “So many. Lied about girls, lied about boys. Lied about wanting.” He pulled back a few inches, letting some air between them, causing the damp skin on Steve’s neck to pearl to gooseflesh. “Look at you.” He smiled, that soft, Bucky smile Steve knew so well. “He wanted you to touch him.” He said, looking pointedly at Steve’s hands, still by his sides.

“I can’t.” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You can.” Bucky said, leaning forward and kissing him softly on the lips. “He wants you to.”

“What do you want?” Steve asked, when Bucky pulled back, leaving his lips tingling. “What about you?”

Bucky smiled sadly. “I don’t want things.” He explained, gently carding his gloved fingers through Steve’s hair. His fingers felt strange, wrapped in leather, but still so gentle – like hurting Steve was the last thing he ever wanted to do. Steve wasn’t quite sure what was going on, this new Bucky wasn’t the same person who’d yelled at him for leaving his shirt to fall on the floor through the night, waking up to it creased. He tried to think of the right way to word it.

“But… the door is locked?” He suggested. “If the door is locked doesn’t that mean you can… do what  ** _you_**  want?”

Bucky paused, eyes flicking down to the bolt he’d slid silently into place before settling on Steve. He looked confused. “He wouldn’t want me to touch you.” He said, after a long pause. “He doesn’t like me.”

“Why?”

“I hurt people.” He said, after a long moment. “He wouldn’t like me to touch you. He’d be angry I touched you first.”

“Do you want to… touch me?” Steve asked, quietly.

The reply was instant and broken, a hitch of breath that broke Steve’s heart. “Yes.”

Slowly, because he was sure that this new Bucky didn’t like quick movements, Steve lifted his arms from where they had been hanging at his sides and carefully placed his palms on the lapels of the new jacket. He could feel every breath Bucky took, feel the contained strength. “I think he’ll understand.”

“No.” Bucky said, sadly. “He’d be angry. He hates me.”

Steve leaned forward, lips still tingling from the last kiss, making him bold. “I think,” he said, leaning in for a kiss that was returned with a softness at war with the hard lines of this new person. “That he’d let you, if I said it was alright.”

That seemed to change things for the new Bucky. He looked at Steve with an expression of wonder. “He’d let you do anything.” He said, solid and sure. “Anything you want.”

“What about you?”

A pause. “I want…” His eyes slowly roamed over Steve’s body. “A memory of my own?” He asked, looking at Steve for reassurance. “To keep safe. Something good. Pure.” He kissed Steve again, swift – like he was stealing something – before pulling back. “I want things too.” He admitted, voice a whisper, watching Steve like he was expecting Steve to laugh, or push him away.

“That’s good.” Steve nodded.

Bucky shook his head. “It’s not allowed. The Soldier doesn’t want things.” He glanced at the door, eyes lingering on the bolt. “We could share.” He said, and Steve didn’t think Bucky was talking to  _him_ anymore. “We could share this memory. Both of us. I don’t care about firsts.” He looked at Steve. “You want to, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Steve said, because he might not know what was going on, and he might not understand, but Bucky obviously needed something Steve was more than happy to give him. Bucky nodded, kissed him again – another touch of lips that felt stolen.

“I’m not allowed to hurt you.” He whispered after a few moments. “And you have to call me Bucky. Those are the rules.” He pulled back, smiling softly. “If you want.”

Steve nodded, hands making fists in the lapels of Bucky’s new jacket, the fabric thick and expensive. Bucky nodded slowly, before pushing back, crowding Steve against the door once more, their bodies flush. “I got to dress you up so nice.” Bucky said, between lingering kisses, his hands roaming freely over Steve’s body. “Expensive.” He bit lightly on the lobe of Steve’s ear, tugging slightly before pressing a kiss over the flesh. “You oughta look like this all the time, it makes us so hot to see it.” He pushed closer still, and Steve could feel the hard lines of his thighs, the press of hotter flesh through their pants – Bucky’s slight roll of hips causing friction Steve couldn’t escape – wouldn’t even if he could. “Wanna see you dolled up all the time.” Bucky carried on, the roll of his hips more pronounced as Steve gripped his jacket harder, heat coiling in the put of his stomach at the words Bucky was whispering in his ear and the press of cloth against his dick. “Use to think about you at Church.” Bucky murmured. “Dressed up in your best. He knew it was wrong, but he watched you get on your knees for  the waiver, open your mouth…” Bucky groaned, pushing harder into Steve. “He came in his pants, every time he watched you.” Bucky admitted, as Steve arched, heat coiling too fast at what Bucky was saying. “Used to tuck a handkerchief around his dick to stop people seeing the wetness.” Bucky smirked as Steve whined, his breath too fast.

“That’s a lie.” He gasped, thinking of all the times Bucky would look a little too pink, his expression glassy. Steve used to think he’d been bored, or had been half asleep. “He didn’t.” He insisted, as heat curled though his body. He couldn’t stop the jerk of his hips any more than he could stop the sun in the sky. “ ** _Please_**.” He didn’t know if he wanted Bucky to stop or keep talking – didn’t know what he was begging  ** _for_**.

Bucky pushed forward, his whole body grinding into Steve, causing Steve to whine like he was dying. “He used to fuck his fist in the confessional.” Bucky carried on, “He wanted you to call him Father, to get on your knees. He wanted to slide his dick in your mouth while you prayed for forgiveness.” Bucky said, and it was that image – the blasphemous image – that snapped Steve’s spine upward, white spots dancing on his vision, orgasm punched out of him sharp and glorious. “That’s it, Stevie.” Bucky soothed as Steve whimpered and gasped. “That’s it.”

Steve let Bucky move him from the door – let himself be manhandled over to the bed – let Bucky pull off his jacket. He felt weak, shaken. Once his jacket was off, Bucky carefully laid him on the bed; all the while murmuring praise about how good Steve was. His shoes were unlaced and placed neatly at the foot of the bed, before Bucky crawled up over him, knees on either side of Steve’s thighs. “Wanna mess you up.” Bucky said, reaching for the button on Steve’s pants, but not pulling them down when he was finished. “Please?” He asked, gloved hands hovering expectantly.

“M’already a mess, Buck,” Steve said, voice wobbly. When Bucky didn’t seem to move, Steve realised that he was asking for permission. “You gonna do it dressed?” He asked, looking pointedly at Bucky’s feet, the boots on the bed.

“I don’t wanna scare you.” Bucky said, looking conflicted. “I don’t look like him anymore.”

“It’s okay.” Steve said, “If you don’t wanna, but I… I won’t mind.”

Bucky stalled. “I have enhancements.” He warned. “A new arm. Scars.”

Steve nodded. The glow of his orgasm faded at the thought of what had been done to the man looking down at him like he was a treasure, something more precious than could be understood. A new arm?

Bucky carefully pulled off his jacket, the black fabric thrown on the floor carelessly, nothing at all like the care he took of what Steve was wearing. The shirt was a better quality than Steve’s Bucky could ever hope to own, but even then he could see the discolouration through the fabric, his whole left arm darkening the fabric.

The gloves were pulled off carefully, and Steve tried not to let his breath catch and falter. Bucky’s left hand was covered in some kind of metal plate, like the suits of armour in the museum. Bucky wasn’t looking at Steve as he popped out the buttons of his shirt, pushing it down over his shoulders.

“Buck-” Steve gasped, trying to push up on his elbows, stopped by a hand to his chest. The metal was hard, but oddly enough, not cold like he was expecting.

“It’s a gift.” Bucky said, running hard fingers down the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “It’s mine. It… is me?” He made a face like he knew he wasn’t explaining it right. “There was a cube. It showed them how to make a new arm for their new soldier, but it didn’t tell them that the arm would be…  ** _for_**  the soldier? For him only.” He pulled back, flexing the metal limb. “They tried to take it from me several times. It always came back.” He smiled. “I don’t have to touch you with it.” He added, looking at Steve’s probably horrified expression. “I can put the shirt back on.”

“No.” Steve said, carefully. “I just… it’s new.” He pulled his eyes away from where the metal seemed to melt into skin, a mess of scaring. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Bucky shrugged. “The first attempts were painful. Then the cube told them how to do it right. The scars are from before, the other arms.” He grabbed the metal with his real arm and tugged, the metal pulling away from skin without any effort, folding in on itself. “It doesn’t like other people doing that.” He said, holding it out.

Steve couldn’t focus on the arm that Bucky was holding out, because all of his attention was fixed on the stump left behind. The skin was badly scarred, but it looked years old – no new marks at all. “When… when did they give you the arm?” Steve asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“After Steve died.” Bucky shrugged, pushing the metal back in place. “I don’t have memories saved from that time. I don’t need them.”

“Okay.” Steve agreed, because thinking about what may have happened to Bucky – what might still happen to Bucky – made his head hurt in the worst way. “But you like the arm?”

“It likes me too.” Bucky explained, rolling his shoulders to settle the metal back in place. “It’s not… it’s not like my guns, or my knives. It’s… not from around here.”

“No kidding.” Steve said, eyes fixed on the chrome. “What’s the star?”

Bucky laughed, sounding genuinely amused for the first time. “They wanted to brand The Soldier. To combat the images of the shield.  _Posturing_.” He leaned back a little, looking at Steve, letting Steve look. “You don’t like this body anymore.” He said, sounding a little resigned. “It was better when you couldn’t see.”

“It’s just a little different.” Steve found himself saying. “I saw Bucky yesterday.” He pointed out. “It’s just… a lot to take in.” He held out his hand and gingerly touched the metal. It was skin warm, smooth – the plates locking together as Steve’s fingers moved over them. He expected the edges to catch the skin of his fingertips, but they were smooth – flawless.

“It likes you too.” Bucky smiled. “It won’t bite you like it bites the others.”

“It’s… it’s like those books you love, Buck.” Steve said, “All your pulp fictions.”

Bucky just nodded, watching the way Steve let his fingers drifted over the metal. “Can you feel that?” Steve asked, looking up.

“Yes.”

“Is it like your real arm?”

“No.” Bucky said, before touching the metal fingers to Steve’s lips. “It knows what to let me feel, what to stop.” He traced the curve of Steve’s lips gently, the metal hard and unforgiving but oddly soft, so little pressure used. “I want to touch you all over.”

“I want you to.” Steve admitted, and he could feel the tips of his ears heating up. “But, um, I made a mess.” He managed to say, grimacing. Everything had cooled into a sticky, uncomfortable mess in the expensive pants Bucky had given him.

Bucky though, smirked. “I remember.” He said, running both hands down Steve’s sides, stopping at the band of his pants. “I took of my shirt.” He pointed out. “Can I please? Now?”

“Okay.” Steve managed, nodding.

Bucky grinned, pulling the fly of Steve’s pants apart, exposing the wetness of his boxers. Steve squirmed as Bucky took his time looking. “Wanna mess you up some more, Steve.” He said, carefully reaching inside Steve’s shorts and pulling out his soft, damp dick, pulling the band of the shorts down until it was sitting under his balls.

“That aint comfortable, Buck.” Steve said, squirming a little. “Just pull my pants down.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, like Steve was being an idiot. Once Steve had squirmed around for a few minutes, his dick trying valiantly to get hard again under the hot gaze of Bucky’s assessing stare, Bucky reached for his own pants.

Steve had seen Bucky naked. He’d even wrapped his hand around Bucky’s dick – that furtive jerk off session Bucky told him was just guys helping out each other and turned out not to be quite so normal – but he’d never  ** _watched_**  Bucky jerk off before. His dick was hard, leaking from the tip. He didn’t bother trying to push his pants down further, just lifted his dick out of his shorts, balls already tight when he tucked the band under them. He leaned forward slightly, just enough so that the bead of liquid forming on the tip dropped forward rather than rolling down the shaft, leaving a wet droplet on Steve’s pants. Bucky smiled at the sight of it, smearing it into the fabric.

“That’ll stain.” Steve pointed out, although it was obvious Bucky didn’t care. Steve didn’t care either, although it seemed like something he should point out. The pants were expensive. “Do you want me to…?” Steve asked, reaching forward a little.

“No.” Bucky said, then paused. “Yes? I don’t… I want…” Another drop pearled on the tip of his dick, hitting Steve’s pants. “I want both. I want to fuck your hand, I want you to let me jerk off over you.” His dick was leaking more now, with every breath it left more dark spots on Steve’s pants. “I want to fuck you.” He whispered, leaning forward. “I want to suck you till you get hard again and then I want to ride you till you drip outta me.”

Steve whined, dick straining to get hard again at Bucky’s words. “Buck.” He hissed, pulling at the other man, lifting himself up to press a kiss against those sinful lips.

“He wanted to fuck you in the dancehall.” Bucky said, leaning down further, mouth back to pressing light kissed over Steve’s face and jaw. “He wanted to bend you over in front of everyone.” Bucky admitted. “Show them who you belonged to.” He pulled back a little. “There was a girl. A redhead. She wasn’t even that pretty, but you liked her and she liked you – it made him so mad.”

“Hannah O’Laughlin.” Steve muttered. It had been one of the only times they’d fought.

“He hated her so much.” Bucky said, his left hand pushing between them, metal fingers curling around Steve’s balls, making Steve hiss and arch at the feeling. “He used to dream about fucking her after you, sliding into her when she was still wet and full of you, get his dick covered in your spunk. He wanted to be the first, he didn’t want her touching you.”

Steve shook his head. “She was a nice girl.” He managed, lost in the feel of those hard metal fingers so gently touching him. “We were just friends.”

“He used to think about both of you – how he’d fuck you while you fucked her, making her watch while he sucked your cock. Then in the dancehall, you kissed her.”

Fingers tightened around his balls and Steve keened, a high, pathetic sound. It wasn’t painful, but unexpected – the sharp tug making him jerk and writhe. His hands flew to Bucky’s shoulders, one metal, the other flesh. His dick hardened quickly, the blood rushing so fast he felt lightheaded. “Buck!” He gasped, fingers scrambling.

“You kissed her.” Bucky carried on, as Steve arched and squirmed. “And he wanted to scream.” He leaned forward, pressing gentle kisses as he rolled Steve’s balls carefully, the contrast of his earlier treatment making Steve’s head spin. “He did it on purpose.” Bucky admitted. “Flirting with her.”

“I know that.” Steve remembered. She’d been happy to kiss Steve until Bucky sauntered over, all swagger and smiles. “He told me he didn’t know, but we fought about it.”

“He wanted to be the only one to kiss you, and she stole what was his.” Bucky grinned. “But he made it right, didn’t he?”

Steve nodded. That night, Bucky had taken a bottle of whiskey into their room and told Steve about something fellas did, just friends – he’d pulled their pants down and jerked Steve off with slow, smooth pulls. “Just friends.” He’d told Steve. “Helping out.”

Steve could feel the way Bucky was striping his own dick as he cupped Steve’s balls, warm wet drops hitting Steve’s skin and pants, making him twitch and squirm. “Gonna mess you up.” Bucky said, dropping kisses all over his mouth and jaw. “People are gonna know your mine. His.” He paused. “ ** _Ours_**.”

The word seemed to spur him on, arm moving faster as he looked down at Steve. “You wanna be ours, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve agreed, when Bucky’s metal hand moved from rolling his balls to slide up his dick – sticky with Steve’s drying cum and Bucky’s pre-ejaculate. “Yeah.”

“He wants you all the time.” Bucky said, adjusting his stance so he could wrap the metal hand around the both. Steve whined at the sensation of Bucky pressed against him, the easy glide of smooth metal over his skin, rubbing them together. “He wants to kiss you at the docks and suck your dick in the library and fuck you in church.” Bucky carried on as Steve sucked in breaths, his dick hyper sensitive and aching deliciously with each stroke. “He wants you on your knees.” Bucky whispered. “He wants all the time.”

“What do you want?” Steve gasped, body trying to get to the edge but knowing it was much too soon since his last orgasm. The hand striping their cocks together didn’t falter, but Bucky visibly jerked. “If your sharing this…” Steve panted. “What do you want?”

Bucky looked down. “I want to touch you.” He said, looking down at his hand, their dicks pressed together. “I want… to stay here. With you.” He blinked, hand speeding up, faster, pulling Steve’s orgasm closer to the surface and still too soon. “I want you to save me.”

Bucky’s whole body jerked at that, stripes of cum covering Steve’s dick, pants, splashing over his shirt – but he didn’t stop working them over. “Look at you.” He said, voice rough with wonder, eyes roaming all over Steve’s ruined clothes. “Look at you. Ours.” He smiled, slow and smug. “Looking so good all messed up.” He smirked. “Your new clothes are ruined.”

“You…” Steve gasped. “Did that.”

“We did.” Bucky agreed, hand still working them both over, even though Steve could tell that the other man’s dick was softening. “You look so good when you’re messy.” He smirked, looking down. “You always looked so pretty, even spitting blood, even bruised. He wanted to make you do things, he wanted you mad, sometimes.” Bucky whispered, leaning close. “He wanted you fighting and spitting and he wanted to hold you down.” He paused, kissing Steve so softly despite his words. “He’d never hurt you,” He added, maybe seeing confusion on Steve’s face. “It was just thoughts. He had a  ** _lot_**  of thoughts about you. He always wanted to be first.” Bucky said, sounding a little amused. “We wanna suck you, Steve,” Bucky murmured, moving his hand away and working down Steve’s body. Steve couldn’t do much more than whine. “We wanna taste you.”

Steve’s eyes were shut when Bucky’s mouth closed over the length of him, burning hot and too much all at once. Steve hadn’t ever felt someone’s mouth on his dick, had no frame of reference other than his imagination – something he hadn’t realised was sadly lacking. If it wasn’t for the way back held his hips down onto the mattress, Steve would have been a spasming mess. As it was, he jerked and twitched, a constant high whine working up from his throat, gasps torn from his abused lungs. He tried to warn Bucky, tried to get words to form – but it was all for nothing; Bucky knew.

When Steve’s muscled locked, Bucky had already pulled away, his metal hand jerking Steve hard and fast when his world shorted out, Steve covering them both in thick white stripes before blacking out.

* * *

 

He woke up to his own bed, smelling strangely like expensive soap and hurting in places he hadn’t known to hurt before. His head felt groggy, like he hadn’t been asleep long at all – and when he kicked off the well-worn quilt, his legs felt like jelly. Bucky was laying on his bed, pillow kicked on the ground, mouth open and breathing deep lungfuls of air. For some reason, it made Steve double take to see him there, arms thrown out. He always ran hot in his sleep – kicking the covers off his body. Seeing him there made Steve pause, like something didn’t quite make sense, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

He padded through to the main room, blinking to clear the grit from his eyes. His jacket, thin and worn, was carefully placed over the back of the couch rather than compulsively hung up by the door the way Bucky liked it, and without thinking, Steve lifted it to put it back where it belonged. He really should start making more of an effort in how he looked, Bucky was always going on about it.

He didn’t notice the shadow by the window, the faint blue glow in the street below.

_The memory is safe?_

“Yes.”

_Then return._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so out of practice with porn, man - this was fun to write but felt a little jarring.   
> Hope you like it, just a little something for over the New Year!
> 
> Love you all,   
> Robyn


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